CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE HIGH SHERIFFS OF BRISTOL
Finally, after having heard so much about it, I was standing in Mrs Mercer’s now infamous library. While it was certainly impressive, it paled into insignificance compared with that I had seen in the League’s secret lodge.
Mrs Mercer’s collection was housed in the attic of the Regent Hotel, curtains pulled across the large windows to protect the precious tomes. Holmes was in his element, whereas I was still uncomfortable standing alongside a man who had admitted to attacking Lord Redshaw. Whatever the motives for his crime, there was no evading the fact that he had tried to kill a man who had helped me in my hour of need.
“Here,” said Mrs Mercer, bringing a thin leather-bound book to the reading table at the centre of the room. “The High Sheriffs of Bristol from 1373 to the Present Day.”
“How does this help?” I asked.
“Let me show you.”
Placing the slim volume on the table, she began carefully turning the pages. “Bristol has had High Sheriffs since medieval times.”
“What do they do?” asked Powell.
“The office has existed in Britain for one thousand years or more,” Holmes explained, “its holder being the sovereign’s representative in matters of law.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs Mercer. “However, some names from our more recent history may be of interest.”
She stopped at a page tallying the High Sheriffs from 1800 onwards. “For the first half of the century two men shared the position, each pair taking office every September.” She ran a finger down the list of names. “Here we are.”
Holmes looked where her finger had stopped. “1804 – Levi Amis Junior and Philip Protheroe.”
“And now here,” Mrs Mercer said, indicating another name. “1819. James George and John Gardiner.”
Now Holmes was scanning the names himself. “A-ha! 1826 sees Daniel Stanton taking up the post.”
“The names from the advertisements,” Powell said.
“A coincidence?” I asked.
“Possibly. Mrs Mercer, I assume the hotel supplies its guests with newspapers if required?”
“Of course.”
“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to have someone gather as many copies of the Mercury as you can lay your hands on.”
The order was sent out and in due course a member of staff returned with a bundle of newspapers, which were deposited on the reading table. Holmes went to work, rifling through the small advertisements.
“But can the names help us find the woman?” Powell asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Holmes replied. “But they can help us identify a pattern. Here we are, another one. A Mrs Castle, wanting to adopt a quiet baby.”
“Michael Hinton Castle,” Mrs Mercer said, checking the list of sheriffs. “1832.”
Out came another paper, and another name was found. “Mrs Hillhouse?”
“Abraham Hillhouse, 1817,” Mrs Mercer announced.
Now we were all at it, rifling through the newspaper to find one advertisement after another. Soon the names were piling up: Mrs Walker, Mrs Haythorn, Mrs Hassell, each and every one taken from the distinguished company of royal representatives.
“The coincidence grows with every passing page,” Holmes said, “unless someone is indeed choosing pseudonyms from the ranks of the High Sheriffs of Bristol. We’ve seen such habits before, have we not, Watson?”
“We have?”
“Of course. Remember the Strangler of Birdcage Walk. He used a long line of nom-de-plumes to arrange rendezvous with his unfortunate victims, each and every one an Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“I don’t think I was involved in that case, Holmes.”
“Were you not? Then I must furnish you with the details when this business is over. I think you will find it diverting. I identified the culprit by means of a stuffed squirrel.”
“But why use a list of names at all?”
“Because the constant creation of new identities is a drain on the imagination, Watson. Far easier to plunder an obscure list that no one will notice, unless they are an expert like Mrs Mercer.”
It was just as Tovey had said. Hardly an edition went by without the inclusion of a similarly worded advertisement, all with the same fixed terms of ten pounds per child.
“Surely there can’t be that many unwanted children in the world, let alone one city,” I said.
“Try not to be naive, Watson,” Holmes said sternly. “Besides, not every advertisement would bring success.”
“But you are sure they are the same woman?” asked Powell.
“The similarities in content are too great to be a coincidence, as are the assumed names. Always mention of her home, always ten pounds; the same amount paid to Mrs Protheroe. This is the woman who took your child, I am sure of it.”
“So if we find her, we can find my son?”
“Possibly, if he is still alive.”
“Surely he has to be, Holmes,” I said. “If the woman is harming such a large number of children, wouldn’t the police—” I stopped myself, glancing at Powell.
“Wouldn’t the police have discovered any bodies?” the man said matter-of-factly.
“One would hope so, unless our High Sheriff of baby farmers has found a way to stay one step ahead of the authorities. Inspector Tovey is a good man, an intelligent man; but like all his breed, he is hampered by resources if not vision.”
“Still, he could help us all the same,” I said.
“If you can trust him,” Mrs Mercer added.
Holmes regarded her with interest. “You are thinking of our mutual friend, the loathsome Inspector Hawthorne.”
“He is in the pocket of Sir George,” Mrs Mercer said.
I shook my head again. “Sir George again. He had everything worked out, didn’t he? St Nicole’s. Your arrest…”
“Well, he had failed to take Inspector Tovey into account. Tovey is an honest man, dedicated to the pursuit of justice. Besides, one only has to look at the cut of his jacket to see that Tovey survives on very little, while Hawthorne wears a suit of the finest quality, far beyond the means of a police inspector. Most of what Tovey earns goes to his sister in Weston-super-Mare.”
“Then we should go to him,” Powell insisted before I could ask how Holmes could possibly know about Tovey’s family situation. “And explain everything that has happened.”
“Nelson, you’ll be arrested on the spot,” Mrs Mercer pleaded with the young man.
“So be it,” said Powell. “Which matters more? My freedom, or the fate of my child?”